


Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Foggy Nelson knows about Matt Murdock, it's how <i>tactile</i> he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight

“Hey, Foggy?”

“Mm?” Foggy looks up from tying his shoe and waits for Matt to say whatever it is he wants to say. After a little more than a week, he’s still learning to read his new roommate’s face - the “no eye contact” thing makes it tricky - but he thinks Matt looks uncertain. “What’s up?”

“Could you...ah…” Matt’s fingers curl around the handle of his cane like a security blanket. He’s already got his jacket and shoes on, ready to head down to the coffee shop before their first classes of the day. “Could you guide me?”

Foggy blinks. Matt’s asked him for help before, but with little things like reading signs and screens, never with getting around. Foggy maybe should’ve offered, but he didn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth more than he had when they met - and besides, Matt never seems to _need_ help getting around. Sure, he has the cane, and he gropes for seats and doors, but there’s a confidence to the way he moves, a certain surefooted grace that Foggy can never hope to emulate no matter _how_ good his eyes are.

He must’ve hesitated too long, because Matt’s fingers tighten on the cane. “You don’t have to - ”

“No, it’s fine!” Foggy says quickly. “I just...are you okay? It’s just that you’re always, like. Mr. Independent. Like Kelly Clarkson.” Foggy is an _idiot_.

Matt lets out one of those little surprised laughs of his, the ones that always make Foggy feel oddly triumphant. “No, no, I’m fine. I can get around with just the cane, it’s just...a little easier with someone guiding me. But I don’t like to ask until...until I know the other person.”

Foggy’s glad Matt can’t tell how warm his cheeks are right now. Whatever, it’s totally manly to be touched when your cool new roommate trusts you not to walk him into a wall. “What if I lead you off a cliff?”

He can see Matt relaxing at the joke, the furrow between his brows easing. Once again, being ridiculous serves Foggy well. “One of the many cliffs we have here in Manhattan?”

“There could be hundreds of them. How would you even know?” Foggy counters. He finishes off his shoelace and stands up. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just…” Matt moves towards his voice, left hand out. “I’ll hold on to your elbow. Just say if there are stairs, or if we’re crossing the street, stuff like that.”

Foggy holds his right elbow out like he’s doing half a chicken dance. He’s sure it looks awkward as hell, but hey, Matt can’t see it. “Elbow’s fine, but just so you know, I don’t hold a boy’s hand until after we’re pinned.”

Matt laughs again. “I’m glad to hear you’re guarding your virtue closely. Very admirable.”

His fingertips bump Foggy’s arm and drag around the curve of it to nest in the crook of his arm. Foggy loosens the bend of it to give him more room. Matt’s grip is light but unmistakable, a warm presence through Foggy’s sleeve.

“This okay?” Matt asks.

Next to him like this, Foggy can see the line of Matt’s profile; the slope of his nose, the way his upper lip pushes up into his cupid’s bow. His eyes are normally hidden by his glasses, but here, up close, Foggy can tell that they - or at least the one closest to him - are a warm, forest-y color, that color that’s not quite brown but not quite green.

Foggy wets his lips. Hazel, right, that’s what it’s called. Hazel. “Yeah, but I should warn you: if we walk into a line dance, I _will_ do-si-do you.”

Matt grins, and his fingers curl tighter against Foggy’s arm. Foggy can see the smile lines arcing towards his cheekbones. “That’s fair.”

Yeah, Foggy thinks. This is okay.

*

The world is spinning. The world is spinning, but that’s okay, because Foggy’s safe on his bed, and Matt is snickering over on the next bed about a joke Foggy’s already forgotten, and the Heights Cafe’s three dollar happy hour margaritas are Foggy’s _friends_.

“Heh. Which...which was the girl who kept trying to sit in your lap?” Matt asks.

Foggy grins at the ceiling. “The redhead.”

“Okay, you realize that doesn’t help me at all.”

Foggy frowns, then gets it and stifles a laugh. “Right, sorry. The, uh...she kept saying we should go downtown. Not anywhere in particular, just, like. _Downtown_.”

“Ha, yeah. What’s downtown?”

“Nothing, man.” Foggy closes his eyes. “She was hot, though.”

“Mm. Red hair?”

“Yep.”

Matt falls silent, and Foggy wiggles a little, burrowing into his mattress. Better to have a secure nest when it’s spinning like that.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“What color is _your_ hair?”

Foggy opens his eyes. He never thought about it, but yeah, how would Matt know? “It’s green.”

“Foggy…” There’s laughter in Matt’s voice, but a bit of an edge, too.

“Blond,” Foggy admits. “It’s blond.”

Matt’s quiet for a minute. “I guess it’s weird, right? That we’ve been roommates all year and I don’t even know what you look like?”

“No weirder than you quoting Thurgood Marshall all the time. _Nerd_ ,” Foggy says, and is rewarded with a laugh. “...I. I could tell you what I look like.” He’s gonna describe Justin Timberlake. No, Orlando Bloom. Maybe some kind of hybrid. Orlustin Bloomberlake.

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Or…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. “Or?” Foggy prompts. “Or what?”

“I could...touch you?”

The bed spins faster. “...What?”

“Like, your face. To...feel your features. It helps,” Matt says. “It gives me a general idea, at least.”

Foggy’s pretty sure his face doesn’t feel like Orlando Bloom’s. Still… “Okay,” he says.

He hears the creak of Matt’s ancient university-issued mattress as he gets up, and then Matt’s feeling for the edge of Foggy’s bed, poking Foggy in the side by accident in the process. Foggy yelps and squirms away. “Okay, more gentle than that on the face, please.”

“I’m always gentle,” Matt says, sitting down next to him, and it’s definitely only Foggy’s stupid runaway brain making that sound as suggestive as it did.

Matt leans over him, close enough that his thigh presses into Foggy’s hip. His glasses are off and his gaze is directed somewhere to the left of Foggy’s mouth, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looks a little flushed, but that’s probably the dim light in the room.

“Okay. Where are you?” he asks. His right hand hovers six inches over Foggy’s sternum.

Foggy swallows. “Uh. Here,” he says. He wraps his fingers around Matt’s wrist and guides Matt’s hand to his face. Even though he’s in control, he can’t help jumping a little when Matt’s fingers make contact with his cheekbone.

“Oh,” Matt says softly, and brings his other hand up on the other side of Foggy’s face. Foggy closes his eyes.

Matt’s methodical about everything, so it’s no surprise when he works his way down over Foggy’s features like he’s gonna be tested on them later. He smooths his fingers over Foggy’s forehead, brushing his hair out of the way as he goes. The pads of his fingers are warm and callused, maybe from all the pounding on a punching bag he thinks Foggy doesn’t know about.

His fingers skate down from Foggy’s temples over his eyebrows, feather-light across his eyelids, and Foggy can’t help his hitch of breath at the intimacy of it. It’s stupid, they’re just _eyelids_ , but he can’t remember anyone else ever touching them. He can’t imagine anyone else he’d _let_ touch them.

“What color are your eyes?” Matt asks, and his voice is so close, so soft, that Foggy shivers.

“Uh, green?” he says. “Or, like a green-blue, I guess?”

Matt’s right thumb brushes through Foggy’s eyelashes, and Foggy hisses a breath in through his teeth.

His heartbeat is pounding behind his eyes, wracking his chest, and he knows he’s gotta be flushed, maybe even warm enough for Matt to feel it. Matt’s fingers trace the shape of his nose; Foggy twitches it to make Matt laugh, to dispel the too-intense charge between them, but Matt’s laughter, when it comes, is a rumble through Foggy’s bones that just makes everything worse.

Then his fingers are on Foggy’s cheeks, his palms cupping them, warm and rough. He outlines Foggy’s jawbones, his chin, the dip above it...and then he pauses. He’s not gonna touch Foggy’s mouth, Foggy realizes, and there’s a spark of relief that’s quickly doused in a wave of disappointment.

He _wants_ Matt’s hands on his mouth. He wants Matt’s hands _everywhere_.

That’s enough of a reason to stop this. He opens his mouth to ask if Matt has a sense of what he looks like now, but the only word he gets out is “Did,” because the pad of Matt’s thumb is pressing into his lower lip.

Matt’s _thumb_ is on his _lip_ , and Foggy freezes, mouth still slightly open, as that same thumb strokes into the corner, pushes a little like he wants to make Foggy smile. He traces the upper lip with the same thumb, presses into Foggy’s mouth until he hits the ridge of Foggy’s bottom teeth. And stops.

Foggy opens his eyes.

Matt’s closer than he thought, hair falling onto his forehead as he leans over Foggy. His thigh is hot against Foggy’s hip. His eyes aren’t sleepy anymore; they’re very wide, tracking something Foggy can’t see, and color burns high in his cheeks.

Matt licks his lips. “Foggy,” he says, and then “Foggy” again, and in that moment Foggy knows Matt’s going to kiss him, knows it as surely as he knows his own name.

His heart drums faster, frantically.

And suddenly there’s a line between Matt’s brows and he’s sitting up, the mattress dipping as he moves away. Foggy’s lip is cold where Matt’s thumb rested. “Thanks,” Matt says, his voice distant. “I, uh...that gives me a better mental image. So, yeah...thanks.”

He gets up and scurries awkwardly across the room, back to his own bed. Foggy’s world starts to spin again without Matt to anchor it.

“Hey,” he says into the crushing silence descending between them. “Any time.”

There is never another time.

*

“This isn’t going to work.”

Matt yanks the earbud out of his ear and slams his laptop shut, probably a bit harder than is good for it. “We’re never going to find anything on Fisk. He’s covered his tracks too well.”

“We will,” Foggy assures him. It feels like that’s all any of them have been doing for the past few weeks: taking turns giving up hope. Reassuring each other. Worrying. “We just have to keep trying.”

“I don’t...I can’t…” Matt’s got his glasses off, and even as dark as their office is - they have _got_ to work out their overhead lighting situation - it’s easy to see the naked frustration on his face. “It’s not just about _trying_. We have to nail him the first time. He’s already gone after Karen twice over Union Allied. What if he tries again once he finds out what we’re doing? What if he comes after _you?_ ”

“Why do you think I keep a baseball bat in the office?” Foggy jokes, but Matt’s weary expression doesn’t so much as flicker. Foggy sighs and gently kicks Matt’s ankle under the table. “Come on, let’s pack it in for the day. It’s late, Karen went home hours ago. You’re just tired.”

It’s truer than he wants to admit. Matt seems tired all the time now, and preoccupied, like there’s something he’s not talking about. There’s a gulf between them Foggy doesn’t know how to cross. Part of him wonders if it has something to do with Karen, even if Foggy’s not entirely sure where he and Karen stand after their one and only date _literally_ went up in flames. Matt got kind of weird about Marci, too, which is frankly rich from a guy who goes through women like he’s a cruise ship passenger and they’re a midnight buffet.

But feeling left out wouldn’t explain all the bruises. Matt’s never been clumsy before, but now it’s like every other day he’s got a split lip or he’s walking like an old man. Foggy doesn’t know how to ask about it, not with Matt so distant lately, but he worries that whatever’s keeping Matt up nights is making him careless. He knows Matt’s perfectly capable of getting around on his own, but a careless blind man in _this_ city, and with all the stairs in his apartment… Foggy’s throat locks up and he can’t finish the thought.

He closes his own computer, shoves the papers he was poring over back into their folder, and stands up, heading past Matt and towards the door. Matt doesn’t move; he just sits there, his jaw working minutely, practically thrumming with anxiety; a too-tight guitar string about to snap.

“Come on,” Foggy says again, coming up behind Matt’s chair. He puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder to make sure Matt knows he’s there. “Take a break, Matty. It’ll still be here in the morning.”

Matt’s shoulder trembles finely beneath his fingers; then he turns his head and pushes back against Foggy, temple pressed to Foggy’s sternum.

Startled as he is, it’s just instinct for Foggy to move his hand to Matt’s head, to press closer because that’s what Matt seems to need. He smooths his hand over Matt’s hair and lets Matt breathe, hot and fast against his stomach. A siren wails in the distance, bleeding into the sounds of the city as it gets further away.

After a minute, Matt pulls back. He doesn’t look at Foggy - well, he never really _looks_ at Foggy, but he doesn’t even turn his head in Foggy’s direction. “You’re right,” he says, his voice very steady. “It’ll be here in the morning.”

So this is something else they aren’t going to talk about - which is just as well, because Foggy has no idea what to say. “Then let’s get out of here!” he says, giving Matt a brisk clap on the shoulder as he steps back. “There’s some cold lo mein in my fridge calling my name. Except it’s calling me ‘Franklin,’ which I really hate.”

Matt chuffs something like a laugh as he stands up. It’s a hollow sound, and it makes Foggy’s heart ache. “Sounds like you need to show it who’s boss.”

“Probably the lo mein,” Foggy admits. “You know how weak I am for roast pork.” He hands Matt his cane, reaching out to guide Matt’s hand to the handle. “Hey. Between that and the egg rolls there’s probably enough for two.”

Matt’s fingers hit Foggy’s knuckles, slide up, and curve around the rubber grip of the cane. “Nah, I’m good.” He takes his glasses out of his breast pocket and slides them on. “Foggy...thanks.”

Foggy shrugs into his jacket, glad Matt can’t see the expression on his face. He doesn’t need to know how worried Foggy is - or how touched. “Hey, the Nelson refrigerator is always open, you know that,” he says. “Besides, you’re the brains of this outfit. If I don’t help you keep body and soul together, there goes Nelson and Murdock.”

Matt gives him a faint smile. Foggy hates how forced it is. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

He taps his way towards the office door and Foggy follows along behind, turning off the lamps as he goes, and thinking, no. No, they certainly can’t.

*

Matt’s making a noise like an animal left at the pound, and Foggy’s finding it harder and harder not to give a shit.

It’s just the two of them, and has been for hours, ever since Claire packed up her first aid kit and her unimpressed facial expressions and left. Matt’s still out like a light; the floor’s still scattered with bloody gauze and scraps of costume. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’s costume.

Matt’s costume.

Foggy can’t get his head around it: the insanity of it, of his _best friend_ being a vigilante, a criminal, a, a...he doesn’t know what. He would have sworn he knew Matt Murdock better than anyone on the planet, but Christ - he doesn’t know fucking _anything_. Least of all how many lies Matt’s told, and for how long, and why.

Maybe Foggy was always just part of the act; a convenient way to make Matt seem like an everyday, non-vigilante, mostly-sane, mega-handsome tragically heroic blind lawyer. Maybe Foggy never meant a damn thing to Matt.

In which case he should walk out the door right now. Hell, he should probably walk out the door regardless, because no matter what Matt says when he wakes up, there’s no way around the fact that he’s been lying to Foggy about everything.

_If_ Matt wakes up.

And that’s why Foggy can’t leave.

No, he’s just been sitting here stewing in his own thoughts, because if Matt dies it’ll be his own stupid fault, and how _dare_ he do that to Foggy?

But now Matt’s keening, soft pained sounds that Foggy doesn’t want to admit are cutting straight through him. He’s not sure if Matt’s dreaming or if that’s just what happens when you get gutted like a fish. In the glow of the billboard outside Matt’s window, he can see Matt’s face, twisted up in pain; he can see Matt curling in on himself. Even in this light it’s easy to tell how pale he’s gone.

It serves him right. Probably.

Foggy turns resolutely towards the window.

Then he gets up and walks over to the couch. “Hey,” he says, and puts his hand on Matt’s forehead, pushing his hair back. Matt’s skin is cooler than he expects. “Shut up.”

Matt stills immediately, so fast Foggy’s breath catches. He doesn’t know if it’s the command or the contact or his voice that does it. He’s not sure he _wants_ to know.

He catches his thumb stroking Matt’s forehead, trying to smooth out the lines there, and steps back. Matt stays quiet, and for that small mercy, Foggy is grateful.

It’s gonna be a long night.

*

Matt showers and changes back into street clothes while Foggy drifts aimlessly around the gym, studying the name “Murdock” on faded posters and thinking about a little boy left alone in the dark. They head for the precinct once Matt’s dressed, and they’ve already gone two and a half blocks before either of them realize that Matt’s hand is on Foggy’s arm, just like old times.

It’s Foggy who catches himself first. He doesn’t pull away, but Matt must _smell_ it on him or something, because he falters and stops.

And maybe Foggy’s not as good at reading people’s secret physical signals as Matt is, but he can definitely feel Matt’s fingers tighten on his arm before letting go.

“Sorry,” Foggy says. “I didn’t think...it was just habit. You don’t...you don’t actually need that, do you?” Or the translating of other people’s silent gestures, or the endless descriptions of the world around them, or the hundred and one times Foggy’s put Matt in a cab to make sure he got home safe. He’s still not entirely sure what Matt can “see” and what he can’t, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that Matt never needed him at all.

He can see Matt swallow. “No,” he admits. His voice is very low.

For a minute Foggy feels guilty for having assumed, and then he remembers that Matt _asked_ , all those years ago. “Why...I mean, back in college, why did you ask me to…?” He thinks he should be angry, unpacking another box in the attic of their friendship and finding yet more lies, but he mostly just feels tired. He’s been angry so long.

Matt’s hands twist around the handle of his cane. “I.” His voice breaks off and he licks his lips. “I don’t know. I guess...it was part of the act. Part of making everyone think that I...that I couldn’t…” He shakes his head, the picture of abject misery. “I used you. I’m sorry.”

Foggy cocks his head. “But you weren’t the De-- ” Whoops, they’re in public. “You didn’t have your, uh, _night job_ then.” Good, now any passersby will just think Matt’s a secret hooker. “You said you didn’t...until after we left L and Z and…”

Matt doesn’t actually _move_ , but he somehow manages to shrink in on himself further. “I guess it was like you said. I guess I just always...I always knew I’d wind up...you know.”

He’s lying.

Foggy can’t hear Matt’s heartbeat. He can’t tell if Matt’s warmer than usual. He can’t even see Matt’s _eyes_ , hidden behind his glasses.

But Matt’s _definitely_ lying.

Maybe he always knew he’d end up a fighter. Maybe he was marked that way from birth. But that’s not the reason he asked Foggy to guide him, or at least not the only one.

Maybe he needs Foggy more than Foggy thinks.

Matt flinches _hard_ when Foggy’s fingers circle his wrist, and it makes Foggy’s throat catch. But he just tucks Matt’s hand back where it belongs, inside his elbow, warm and strong.

Matt’s mouth moves soundlessly for a minute. “Why…?”

“It’s part of the act. Like you said,” Foggy says, trying to keep his tone breezy. “People would notice if we changed it up. Karen’s already suspicious.” He shrugs and doesn’t bother to translate. “Besides, if I don’t hang on to you, you’ll probably go backflipping down the street to beat up a jaywalker or something.”

Matt’s fingers tighten again, digging in so hard Foggy’s gonna have to check for a bruise later. Then he apparently catches himself and his fingers soften. His mouth softens. If relief has a smell, Matt’s stewing in it for sure.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. It’s just part of the act.”

He’s lying again, but Foggy can’t bring himself to be mad about this one.

*

_Thump!_

Foggy drops his toothbrush in the sink with a clatter. Okay, that _definitely_ came from the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s a garden variety burglar or if someone figured out that the Nelson and Murdock firm is connected to Daredevil and he’s about to get all his toenails pulled off, but either way, loud thumps after midnight aren’t a good sign.

He looks around for a weapon, but the closest thing he can find is the toilet brush. Well, maybe he can _gross_ the intruder into submission. Wishing he had his phone with him, he creeps out of the bathroom and peers around the corner.

Daredevil is crouched on his floor, soaking wet, huddled over like something hurts and fumbling at his mask.

Foggy drops the toilet brush and hurries forward. “Matt!” Oh God, he’s hurt, he’s hurt and maybe he’s bleeding out and Foggy has some extra-large Band-Aids but that’s about it, what is he going to do if Claire can’t get here in time...?

“Foggy,” Matt says as Foggy drops to his knees in front of him, heedless of the puddle soaking into his pajama pants, “Foggy. Fog, I can’t…”

His fingers slip on the mask, gloved fingers clumsy, and it’s Foggy who draws it off and tosses it aside. There’s a bruise purpling under Matt’s left eye and his lip is split, but that seems to be the worst of it. Foggy puts his hands on Matt’s shoulders to hold him at arms’ length, but the costume is intact, with no indication of the gaping wounds Foggy feared. Bless you, Melvin.

But Matt is _shaking_ , his breath coming fast, and his eyes are wild. He might not be physically hurt, but something happened. Something bad.

“Matt,” Foggy says. He puts a hand on Matt’s cheek, and shit, Matt’s ice cold. “Matty. Buddy. What happened?”

“I. It. The new heroin ring, the one that replaced Gao, it.”

“Yeah.” Foggy knows; Matt’s been trying to get a lead on them for weeks.

“I found...by the river. They were waiting...there was a tank under the warehouse and I didn’t...they held me under…”

They tried to _drown_ him. Rage howls suddenly in Foggy’s chest and for the first time he understands why someone might take to the streets to burn that kind of anger out. They tried to drown Matt, _his_ Matt.

But Matt’s been nearly killed before and it’s never shaken him this badly. Foggy _wishes_ , sort of, that it would, because maybe he’d be more careful...but no, this is different.

His hands are back on Matt’s shoulders. He can feel him trembling. “It’s okay,” he says, soft and firm. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Matt shakes his head, a little too hard, a little manic. “They kept...kept pulling me out and putting me under again, and I couldn’t, I can’t, I couldn’t…” His hands scrabble at Foggy’s chest, helpless. “Foggy, I couldn’t _see_.”

For a minute Foggy doesn’t understand - and then he does. Matt uses hearing and smell to navigate the world, mostly. Underwater, smell’s gone and hearing’s deadened, if not worse than useless. He knows Matt can swim, he’s _been_ swimming with Matt, but that’s not having his head forced under and out again, over and over; water filling his ears and nostrils and throat; panic and disorientation making the world go sideways and never knowing if he’d have the chance to right it again.

It must have been like being blinded all over again. Christ, no _wonder_ Matt’s shaking.

“You’re okay,” he says again, even if it’s not really true, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “You got away. You’re here with me. You’re okay.”

Matt shakes like a fucking _leaf_ and Foggy hauls him in close, not caring if he gets soaked in whatever filthy water’s still dripping off of Matt. Matt grabs him and _clings_ , but the minute Foggy feels Matt’s frigid cheek against his own he knows this isn’t going to work. He can’t calm down if he’s too busy developing hypothermia.

“Come on, buddy,” he murmurs against that same cheek and stands up, pulling Matt with him. “We gotta dry you off, you’re going to catch the augue in a minute.”

Matt doesn’t laugh, but he also doesn’t resist as Foggy tows him down the hall and into the bathroom.

“I don’t mean to be fresh, but you need to get out of those wet clothes,” Foggy says.

Matt stares helplessly somewhere in his direction until Foggy starts tugging at his belt, trying to figure out how the whole damn thing fastens together. “Oh,” he says softly, and lets Foggy pull his gloves off; helps Foggy undo the fastenings so that the shirt will pull over his head; sits on the covered toilet to let Foggy tug his boots off like a kindergartener who needs help with his galoshes.

Then he’s standing mostly-naked in Foggy’s bathroom and it’s not how Foggy thought that would happen when he forgets not to let himself imagine that’s a possibility, but Matt is goosepimpled and lost and there’s nothing the least bit sexual about it. Foggy grabs a towel, grateful that he’s a sucker for the big, expensive, fluffy ones. He wraps it around Matt and _rubs_ , like he’s starting a fire, like he can rekindle the spark in Matt’s smile through sheer friction.

“You still with me, buddy?” he asks, slipping a hand under the towel to touch Matt’s arm. He’s warmer than he was, but he’s hunched and trembling, a fox cornered by hunters and smelling blood.

Matt shakes his head like there’s still water in his ears, like it’s all he can hear. “I can’t...I can’t _hear_ ,” he says, and the _ache_ in his voice makes Foggy clutch Matt’s hand and press it to his heart. He uses his other hand, his grip on the towel still wrapped around Matt’s shoulders, to pull him in close, and Matt leans in until his forehead presses against Foggy’s.

“Listen,” he says. “Don’t worry about anything outside, in the building, it doesn’t matter. Can you hear my heart?” Matt nods jerkily, wet hair brushing Foggy’s face. “Good. Listen to that.”

They stand there, breathing in and out, Matt taking three or four hiccupy breaths to each of Foggy’s. But Foggy waits, his thumb stroking Matt’s knuckles - bruised and raw, always raw - until Matt’s breathing starts to even out: only three to each of Foggy’s, then two, then one. Until the shaking’s gone.

Foggy starts to pull back. Matt’s fingers tighten in his shirt, and he waits for Matt to let go on his own before stepping away. “Let me get you some clothes,” he says, and heads into the bedroom to dig up a T-shirt and a spare pair of sweatpants. They’ll be too big on Matt but that’s okay; it’s not like he’s heading to court in them or anything.

When he holds out the sweats and a faded Columbia Lions shirt, Matt just stares vaguely in the right direction. Foggy’s not sure if it’s because his senses are still on the fritz or if he’s just that out of his head. He gives the clothes a little shake in case that helps. “Come on, get dressed, you nudist.”

Matt half turns towards the costume crumpled in a sodden mess on the bathroom floor. “I can...I should...I don’t want to bother…”

“Matthew Michael Murdock, I swear to God, if you don’t put these sweatpants on and go lie down, I will…” Okay, Matt is actually way stronger than Foggy, which limits Foggy’s already narrow threatening options. “...I will flick you on the nose _so hard_.”

He doesn’t get the laugh he wanted, but Matt takes the sweatpants, which he chalks up as a victory. Once Matt is swimming in his clothes he tries to head for the living room, but Foggy puts his hands on Matt’s shoulders and steers him towards the bedroom. “Nuh-uh. I think you need a real bed tonight, buddy. I’ll take the couch.”

_That_ gets him Matt stopping short and turning on him a look of such desperation that it’s all Foggy can do not to haul on his shoes, go find the gang that did this to Matt, and do his level best to beat the stuffing out of them.

Instead, he forces a smile. “You know what? I think the bed’s big enough for two.”

It’s probably weird that that’s what makes Matt stop dragging his heels and actually get into bed, but Foggy’s so relieved that Matt might actually rest that he doesn’t care. Matt curls up to face the wall, and Foggy shuts the light and climbs in behind him. When he puts his hand between Matt’s shoulder blades he can feel Matt jump; he can feel the tension singing down the bumps of his spine.

He pulls his hand back, unsure. “No,” Matt says immediately. His voice is hoarse. He might have been screaming before.

Foggy stops caring if it’s weird, and he stops caring about the tiny, stupid part of his heart that sometimes hopes for the impossible. He scoots forward, curling up against Matt, draping himself around him like the armor he wishes he could be. Matt’s fingers tangle with his.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice muffled against the back of Matt’s neck.

“Yeah,” Matt says, “it’s...yeah,” and falls silent.

Foggy lets his eyes close. He can’t hear as much as Matt can, of course, can’t use his senses the same way, but he can feel Matt’s ribcage expanding and contracting against him, he can hear the distant hum of cars along the asphalt below, and it’s enough of a lullabye.

He’s half-asleep when Matt says, “Did you _full name me_ back there?” and the laughter in his voice chases the worry from Foggy’s heart like rain washing the city streets clean.

*

“To another glorious victory by Nelson and Murdock!” Karen crows, holding up the liquor bottle like a conquering pirate.

Foggy cheers obediently. Matt, ever the pedant, tries to clarify through his laughter. “Technically, we settled out of court.”

“In the client’s favor,” Karen points out, pouring a finger of whatever unnameable brew Josie’s trying to pass off as scotch into Matt’s glass.

“And we got _paid_ ,” Foggy adds.

“Just celebrate, Matt,” Karen says, nudging him. Foggy does likewise from the other side. It’s crowded tonight, and they’re more crammed than usual. Matt’s trapped between them, so it’s easy to nudge.

“All right, all right,” Matt says, lifting his glass. His thigh is pressed to Foggy’s; his free hand is on the table next to Foggy’s, the tip of his pinky resting on the back of Foggy’s hand. Foggy knows Matt’s too good with spatial awareness for any of that to be an accident, but Matt looks happier than he has in _months_. Foggy’s not going to risk that changing. “To Nelson and Murdock. And Page,” Matt adds quickly.

“Of course! What would we do without Page?” Foggy asks.

“Be bankrupt, probably,” Karen says with a sunny smile, and they clink glasses. Matt leans into Foggy as they drink, and Foggy’s not sure if it’s the liquor or Matt warming him down to his toes. Either way, for the first time in a very long time, it finally feels like things are going right.

*

Foggy’s getting really tired of being nearly killed in explosions. Which is not a thing he ever expected to have the opportunity to get tired of, but life’s full of surprises.

He can thank his lucky stars for two things: one, that Matt and Karen are already gone for the night when it happens, and two, that a craving for a greasy egg sandwich from the bodega downstairs hits him about two minutes before the timer on the bomb goes off. He’s already out of the office proper and halfway down the first flight of stairs when the explosion comes, which is the only thing that saves him. He still takes a hard fall down to the landing, but bruised shins and a sprained wrist are a small price to pay for his life.

Keeping his head down to avoid the black smoke billowing out of the wreckage of Nelson & Murdock’s door, he searches the other offices for other late workers - and a working phone to call 911, because he landed on his back pocket in his tumble down the stairs, and his own phone is useless.

By the time he’s helping a dazed and coughing Mrs. Cardinelli out of her office, though, he can already hear the sirens. When he reaches the street, the paramedics slap an oxygen mask on him and start wrapping his wrist before he can say, “No, I need to keep checking the building,” or “Wait, I have to call my partner.” Matt’s gonna hear. Matt’s gonna _panic_.

It’s not actually as bad as he thought when he was in it, and the firefighters get the flames down from “terrifying” to “time for s’mores!” level pretty quickly. Between gasps of oxygen he tells the detectives on the scene about the mob case they’re involved in, which he’s pretty sure is the source of tonight’s surprise gift. Either that or someone’s connected Matt to Daredevil, and he’s certainly not about to tell the police _that_.

The paramedics want to take Foggy to the hospital, but he doesn’t have time. He needs to get to Karen’s. Matt’s probably Daredeviling around somewhere, but Karen’s home, and maybe watching the news - hell, she might even be able to see the flames from her window. Foggy can walk to her place from here, he can call Matt’s burner from her apartment, he can tell Brett to be on notice, he can do _something_ besides feeling helpless and scared.

He shakes off the oxygen mask, the well-meaning and probably correct advice of the paramedics, and heads for Karen. She’s not far - Hell’s Kitchen isn’t actually that big - but he still takes every shortcut he knows. He’s booking it through an alley when a figure in red drops down in front of him and nearly scares the piss out of him.

“Ma--Daredevil!” he gasps, catching himself. “Jesus Christ, warn a guy next time!” His heart is hammering in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“Foggy.” Matt straightens up. His voice is strangled. “I heard...there was a TV through an open window and the news said…” His head tilts; his nostrils flare. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay,” Foggy says.

Matt shakes his head. “You smell like blood, you smell like...Foggy, I thought…”

“I’m _okay_ ,” Foggy says again, but Matt’s already tugging off his gloves, dropping them on the alley floor, and then Foggy’s back is against the rough brick wall behind him, and Matt’s hands are on his face.

He lets Matt do it, lets those shaking fingers check over every inch of him like Matt can’t quite believe he’s there unless he can sculpt Foggy back into being himself. He lets Matt do it because he hasn’t been friends with him this long not to understand that this is what Matt needs, and because maybe he can admit that he needs it too. He just escaped fiery death, after all; it’s normal to want a little human comfort when there’s still smoke rattling through your lungs.

Matt’s fingers press into his cheeks, his lips. “You smell like soot,” he says, his voice barely audible. “There’s something wrong with your breathing.”

“Breathed in some smoke. They gave me oxygen,” Foggy says, and now he can hear it too, the rasp in his voice. “It’ll clear out.”

Matt’s hands are still moving, across Foggy’s shoulders now, his banged elbow, his wrenched hip. Maybe he can smell bruising under the skin, or feel the heat of it, because he manages to ferret out every wound, every tiny hurt, and Foggy hisses through his teeth and lets him.

Matt’s fingers skate across the ace bandage on Foggy’s wrist. “The blood…” he says. Foggy wishes he could see more of Matt’s face than his tense and worried mouth.

“I skinned my knees. Like a kid on a bike,” Foggy says. “I’m _fine_ , Matt, really.”

Matt’s hand goes to Foggy’s mouth as he talks - not to silence him, Foggy’s pretty sure, just to feel the words as they come out. He’s still trembling, every inch of him that Foggy can feel, a raw nerve, and Foggy tries to reassure him again but he can’t because Matt is kissing him.

Matt is _kissing him_ , bearing him into the wall so hard it scrapes the back of Foggy’s head. His hands are tight enough to hurt and his mouth burns hotter than the fire and Foggy never wants this moment to end.

It does, of course, but only in the sense that Matt breaks the kiss to drag his mouth over Foggy’s cheekbone, his jaw, presses burning kisses all over his face, and Foggy’s certainly not going to complain about this change in the agenda. “Don’t,” Matt says between kisses, his hands fisting Foggy’s shirt. “Don’t...I can’t...I need you _safe_.”

“I don’t know,” Foggy teases, because jokes are the only thing he has to hold on to in this strange new world of _Matt kissing him_. “If this is my reward for near-death experiences, I might start playing in traffic or something.”

Matt actually _growls_. Oh, wow. That’s a sound that’s going to keep Foggy warm at night for a _long_ time to come.

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Foggy assures him, even though he kind of wants to see what he can do to make Matt growl again. He cups Matt’s face, the contrast between the slick red leather under his fingers and the stubbled cheeks under his thumbs strange and fascinating. “Anyway, I’m not afraid of danger.” He hopes Matt can hear his smile. “Daredevil will save me.”

Matt _groans_ and presses his face to Foggy’s neck. His breath is hot and damp. There’s a stupid little horn poking Foggy in the jaw but he thinks it’s a fair trade-off.

He feels it when Matt’s shoulders come down, when he wrests control back. He sucks in a breath against Foggy’s jugular and straightens up. “Daredevil will save you,” he agrees, and his voice sounds steadier too. “No matter what.”

Foggy presses his thumb into the corner of Matt’s mouth, because he has to. “I should get to Karen’s,” he says, a little reluctantly. He still wants to make sure she’s okay, that she knows _he’s_ okay, but part of him is afraid that if he stops touching Matt this will all disappear. “She’s gonna be worried.”

Matt nods. “I’ll make sure you get there safe,” he says, pointing to the roofs, and Foggy doesn’t bother to try to deter him.

Matt pulls his gloves on. He doesn’t kiss Foggy again, but he rests his hand over Foggy’s heart for a minute like he’s making sure it’s still there, and that’s almost as good.

Then - and Foggy’s not quite sure how he does it - he leaps onto a trash can and ricochets up a wall impossibly fast, until he disappears over the roof. “Show-off,” Foggy mutters, and he hears laughter from above.

He’s not sure what just happened. He’s even less sure what’s going to happen next. But he knows his own personal guardian angel in red keeps his own kind of watch until Foggy’s at Karen’s door, and that’s a comfort of its own.

*

Very late that night he takes a long, _long_ shower, until the sweat and soot that even his average nose can smell is washed away. He wishes he could send the aches and pains and all the purpling little bruises swirling down the drain with them, but the hot water helps, and more importantly, he’s _alive_.

He’s sitting on his bed in his underwear, trying to figure out how to rewrap his wrist properly, when he realizes someone’s at his window. He lets out a sort of muffled yelp that at least isn’t a full scream before his brain catches up and reminds him that, oh yeah, he’s got a friend who likes to hop around on rooftops in fetish-wear. At least, it’s unlikely to be anyone else, six stories up.

He goes to the window and sure enough, it’s Daredevil somehow clinging to the ledge and looking totally comfortable doing so. “You know, I have a front door,” Foggy says as he opens the window.

“Yes, because me ringing your doorbell wearing this would have looked so much more normal,” Matt says. His voice sounds regular, calm, and suddenly Foggy remembers that he’s practically naked. It shouldn’t make any difference - they used to live together, for one, and for another, Matt’s _blind_ so it probably doesn’t matter to him whether he can smell a shirt on Foggy or not - but Foggy still steps away, fumbling with the ace bandage in his hands.

“How’s your wrist?” Matt asks. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to pounce on Foggy and kiss him again. Foggy would think he imagined it if he hadn’t spent twenty minutes after his shower staring in the mirror at the traces of beard burn on his face.

“Fine,” he says. “I mean, it hurts, but it’s fine. Or will be, if I can figure this stupid bandage out.”

“Let me,” Matt says, reaching for it.

Foggy takes another step back and waves him off. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“Come on…”

“I’m _fine_ , I’ll figure it out…”

“Look, I know how to do it, I’ve done it for myself a million times…”

“Okay, you realize that’s not actually reassuring, right?” Foggy snaps, embarrassment making him sharp, and Matt freezes.

Foggy closes his eyes. Idiot. “Sorry. I’m...sorry. You’re right, you should do it.” He breathes out hard through his nose, exasperated - with Matt, with himself, with this whole stupid _thing_. “Just...take the mask off first, would you?”

He hears a rustle and opens his eyes to see Matt drag the cowl back. His hair is tousled and matted and he still looks like a wounded puppy, and Foggy remembers the tremble in Matt’s frame when he kissed him earlier and feels even shittier.

Matt tosses the cowl onto Foggy’s bed, then the gloves, one by one, and that - well. Matt’s clothes slowly scattering themselves across Foggy’s cheap comforter does something unexpected deep in Foggy’s belly, something hot and wanting.

Then Matt sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his hands and that does something _worse_. “Come here,” he says.

Foggy sits next to Matt and hands him the bandage. Matt lays Foggy’s wrist across his lap, palm up, and starts winding the bandage around it with sure, practiced fingers. His hands are warm and steady.

“The men who set that bomb...” he says. “They’re in police custody now.”

So Matt’s been busy. Foggy raises an eyebrow. “And in full body casts?”

The Daredevil mask is scary as hell in the right lighting, but Matt’s face right now is scarier. “Didn’t have time to do more than subdue them before the police showed up. Lucky for them.”

“Right,” Foggy says, trying to keep his voice light. “We just swapped out the folding chairs for real desk chairs, and now we have to buy new ones. Those bastards had to pay.”

Matt’s jaw is making the little motions that mean he’s struggling with something, fighting to hold something in. Maybe Foggy shouldn’t have joked. “If you had been hurt, I mean _more_ hurt…” A muscle jumps in his cheek as he fastens the bandage in place with the little metal prongy things it comes with.

“Hey,” Foggy starts to say, but Matt’s not done.

“If you had been hurt, I think I would have killed them,” he says, and Foggy’s pretty sure the “I think” was only added to make him feel better.

It’s terrifying. It’s too much. It makes Foggy want to weep for Matt.

“Well, tough shit, Murdock,” he says, too loud, too falsely jovial. Matt actually flinches. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. We’ve got a lot of student loans to pay off, and you need me around to keep you from taking every case pro bono.”

Matt’s mouth twitches, but it’s too sad to be a smile. Even though he’s finished with Foggy’s wrist, he’s still holding Foggy’s hand loosely in his lap, the pad of his thumb stroking the metal clasp of the bandage. He’s sitting close enough that his thigh is pressed to Foggy’s, and his exhalations stir the damp hair falling against Foggy’s cheek.

Foggy doesn’t know what this is. He’s afraid to ask.

“I’ll see if I can sniff out a falsely accused millionaire for us,” Matt says. Neither of them manage to fake a laugh.

Foggy hates this. He _hates_ this. If Matt was just… _overwhelmed_ before, he wishes he would just say so, so they can go back to being very good friends who politely ignore the occasional spikes in Foggy’s temperature when Matt smirks or laughs or wears a really nice suit. And if he meant the kiss - the _kisses_ , plural, so many of them burning against Foggy’s skin - then he wishes Matt would just say that too, so Foggy can decide if he’s more scared at the thought of losing Matt or losing his only chance.

Either way, Foggy really wishes he was wearing pants.

“Foggy,” Matt says, and stops. He cocks his head like he’s listening, then shakes it. “Could you just tell me what you’re thinking?”

Oh, Foggy does _not_ want to do that. “Can’t you, I don’t know, smell it or something?” he says, like the jerk he is.

“I know your heart is racing,” Matt says. His fingers linger on Foggy’s pulse point. His voice is miserable. “I know you keep shifting, and your breathing’s uneven, and you smell like adrenalin. I mean, you smell like shampoo and cotton and iron residue from your pipes, but under that it’s all...it’s all copper. I know you’re staring at me right now.”

He is. Foggy _knows_ , sort of, that Matt can do this, but it’s strange and unsettling to have that focus trained on him. Unsettling and, if he’s honest, a little bit thrilling.

Matt licks his lips. “But I can only read what’s actually there, I can’t...I don’t know what it _means_. I don’t know if you’re just still scared from the explosion, or from seeing me outside the window, or if you’re mad at me for what I said just now, or what I did when I…when I found you.”

His fingers tighten on that last part, and Foggy _knows_. Or at least, he’s pretty sure. “What else could it be, Matt?” he asks softly.

Matt’s lips part but nothing comes out for a minute. “I don’t...I don’t want to assume,” he says finally. “I don’t want to fuck everything up.”

“Huh,” Foggy says, and can’t fight his growing smile. “Thought you were supposed to be fearless.”

And he kisses Matt, right on his startled mouth.

He has about two and a half seconds to be triumphant about surprising someone who can smell his emotions practically before Foggy _has_ them - and then Matt’s kissing him back, somewhere between joyful and desperate, and Foggy’s heart might actually beat its way out of his chest. Matt’s hands are everywhere - cupping Foggy’s face, combing through his hair, stroking down his sides and up his thighs, and Foggy stops feeling embarrassed about being mostly naked right now, because Matt’s hands on his bare skin are _everything_.

“Foggy,” Matt mumbles against Foggy’s mouth, ragged and adoring, “Foggy, Foggy.” It’s the best sound he’s ever made.

Foggy pulls back to look at Matt; at his kiss-reddened mouth, his hazel eyes, unfocused but still so pretty. He cups Matt’s face with one hand, strokes the smile lines by his eyes and watches Matt’s eyelids droop to half-mast, as blissed out as a purring cat. “God, Matt…” he breathes. “Did you really not know?”

Matt lets his eyes close, raises his eyebrows. “ _You_ didn’t know.”

“ _I_ can’t smell your heart.”

Matt laughs and the sound bubbles up in Foggy’s chest. “You know that’s not what I do.”

“Yeah?” Foggy stretches out, pulling Matt down to the mattress with him. “Show me what you do.”

What Matt does is map out their intertwined lives on Foggy’s body with his fingers. What Matt does is kiss every bruise and scrape and strained muscle like a benediction, and let Foggy do the same to him. What Matt does is tell Foggy he loves him, without words, skin to skin, and Foggy thinks between breathless gasps for air that Matt might have a point: he should have known. Matt’s been telling him all along.

That’s okay, though. Foggy plans on listening more closely from now on.


End file.
